


Telling

by MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd



Series: Underneath All That [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet, Brotherly Love, Gen, Holmes Brothers, POV Mycroft Holmes, Sentiment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-14 23:32:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1282744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd/pseuds/MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vignettes of the Holmes brothers, pre-canon through s03e03.</p>
<p>*****</p>
<p>“If I can’t call you Mikey, what can I call you?” Sherlock is seven years old and looks faintly worried.</p>
<p>“Mycroft, of course. That’s my name.” Mycroft is beginning to feel a little silly. “I didn’t mean you can’t—”</p>
<p>“I want to call you something no one else calls you.” Sherlock’s eyes are as bright as a rain-muted summer sky.</p>
<p>“Brother, then,” says Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Telling

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through season 3. I tried to be canon compliant. Apologies for American orthography and glaring errors.

* * *

 

When Mycroft is seven, he is presented with his heart’s desire: a brother of his own. He is a disappointingly tiny, feeble, and wretched brother, but a brother nonetheless. He will, Mycroft is assured, become more amusing in time. At present, though, he is noisy, demanding, time-consuming. 

Mycroft adores him.

 

*****

It is a relief to find himself, the former well-cherished only child, out of the glare of the spotlight. He is glad to be able to stand to one side, observe, take notes, and learn. He enjoys his self-appointed role of tutor to his little brother. By nature a generous soul, he can think of no better largesse than knowledge.

_You can read a person like a book_ , he tells Sherlock. _You can learn everything about them, just by observing carefully._

Mycroft slowly perfects his own carefully calculated mannerisms of speech, gesture, movement, until he is sure that he is unreadable himself. He finds this smooth veneer comforting, a corporeal sign of his ever-increasing self-command. He is not sure that it matters a great deal—after all, he rarely meets anyone half as perceptive as he is. Only Sherlock can pick him apart to get at the real story underneath.

Mycroft can’t decide whether this fact should alarm or console him.

 

*****

“If I can’t call you Mikey, what can I call you?” Sherlock is seven years old and looks faintly worried.

“Mycroft, of course. That’s my name.” Mycroft is beginning to feel a little silly. “I didn’t mean you can’t—”

“I want to call you something no one else calls you.” Sherlock’s eyes are as bright as a rain-muted summer sky.

“Brother, then,” says Mycroft.

 

*****

Mycroft is seventeen and leaving for Cambridge. His brother, when not raging, has been sullen for weeks, and Mycroft finds his own imminent departure a relief.

“I want something of yours, Mycroft,” he says as Mycroft carefully lays a folded shirt into a suitcase. It isn’t like him to be so neat, and it has cost him an effort to become so. He is still reinventing himself, and he senses that Sherlock does not approve. These are the first civil words that Sherlock has spoken for a long time.

“What do you want, Sherlock?” He keeps his voice cool and his tone pleasant, though he is irritated by the thought that the little brat now only condescends to speak to him when he wants something. Then he looks at Sherlock’s face and berates himself. _Good God, he’s only ten years old, Mycroft_. He smiles, his genuine smile, that he has already learned to keep suppressed.

Sherlock appraises the smile evenly. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I mean, I just want something of yours. Anything. To keep while you’re away.”

“Why would you want that? I thought you _hated me_ and won’t speak to me again _until I’m dead_.” This is a mistake. Sherlock hates to be laughed at. “I’m sorry,” Mycroft adds swiftly. He rarely has to apologize anymore. Only to Sherlock. “I’m sorry. I’m going to miss you too, you know.”

He casts his glance about the room to find an appropriate small token for his little brother. He plucks his rather battered old wristwatch from his desk. He wasn’t planning on taking it with him anyway. “How about this? It’ll be the perfect talisman. Keep it wound up for me.”

 

_*****_

“I’m not going to lie to him,” snaps Mycroft.

“Please, Mikey—” his mother begins.

“Mycroft,” he corrects automatically. “It’s pointless, anyway; he’s going to see through it. ‘Gone to live on a farm in Kent’? Really?”

“Mycroft, despite what you think, he’s still a child. He’ll believe _you_ , you know. And he’s still not coping very well with your being gone, and he’s _such_ a handful; I don’t want to think of how this will affect his behavior.”

“He was my dog too, Mummy,” and his eyes fill with tears. God, how he hates that. Still not under his control. “He’ll find out anyway; you’re just postponing the trouble.”

His brother, however, does not suspect the truth until five years later, when a chance mention of Redbeard suddenly kicks the unwilling gears into position, and Mycroft might find the unfolding expression on his face hilarious, were it not for the stunned and betrayed look with which Sherlock now regards him.

Mycroft regrets the words that come out: “You _can’t_ be only just realizing it now.”

“Yes, I am, Mycroft, because I _trusted_ you.” Sherlock is angry now, and Mycroft turns icy.

“Your mistake, brother mine. Don’t trust anyone.”

He regrets those words too.

 

*****

"You’ve got to learn to lie, Sherlock,” Mycroft advises.

His brother snorts. “What for? To spare people’s _feelings_? God, Mycroft, I never thought you’d spout such drivel.”

“I think you’ll find that a judicious lie will assist you—” He is aware of how pompous he sounds, but finds himself unable to take a more natural tone with his brother. Sherlock at seventeen unnerves him.

Sherlock interrupts him with a laugh, looking up at him through wild curls. He is absolutely exhilarated. Mycroft sighs and adjusts the bloodied towel against his brother’s head. “Well, at least learn to keep your mouth shut. If this doesn’t stop bleeding soon I’m taking you to A&E. And you might have a concussion.”

“I’m used to this, Mycroft,” snaps Sherlock. Then, more gently: “Don’t worry. You worry too much.”

Mycroft is aware that the growing fear gnawing at him on days like today will only get worse. He has kept his brother safe through childhood. He has no idea what he will face in the future, save that it will be out of his control.

 

*****

“You can’t go on like this. You _will_ kill yourself.”

“Yes, I know.”

Sherlock turns flat, blank eyes toward his brother. Mycroft does not find it half as terrifying as the wild and ecstatic, frankly beautiful gaze of his increasingly frequent highs, but it is very unsettling.

“Do you wish I were dead, Mycroft?” His tone is calm, conversational, almost amicable.

_My brother is drowning_ , Mycroft thinks. _Drowning as I watch helpless from the shore. I don’t know how much more I can take._ He closes his eyes against his tears, swallows hard, and whispers a single word: “Yes.”

When he opens his eyes again, Sherlock is gone. Three days later, he receives a phone call informing him that his brother has checked himself into rehab.

 

*****

He doubts whether it could have been called a relationship. He has never told anyone about it, though he knows from certain of Sherlock’s comments that his brother has deduced something. There has never been any particular reason for secrecy. That was, Mycroft supposes, one of his mistakes. Whatever it was, it’s over now, unsurprisingly and definitively.

He’s having a horrible day, and his brother is not making it any better by showing up unexpectedly in Mycroft’s study that evening, apparently for no other reason than to engage in a cheerfully pointless sparring match.

“Why have you upgraded your surveillance on me? Don’t think I can’t tell,” are Sherlock’s first words upon cornering Mycroft next to the fireplace.

“I thought it prudent, Sherlock, given the changes in your circumstances.”

“Ah, because of John. But you’ve already kidnapped him once, and—”

“I didn’t _kidnap_ him, for goodness’ sake. And this is just precautionary, probably temporary. Change the subject.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, and Mycroft braces himself for the barrage. He is in no mood for banter. He tries to glare his brother into silence, but he knows it won’t work. Sherlock is calculating just how far to push to elicit either a flounce or a bellow. He’s been conducting this ongoing experiment for years.

“Why do you feel the need to spy on me, anyway, Mycroft?”

“I’m not spying on you, Sherlock.” Mycroft knows he ought to leave it at that, but can’t help adding, “Perhaps if you’d deign to talk to me from time to time—”

“I’m talking to you now! What more do you want? Maybe if you weren’t such an irritating, uncommunicative, controlling…” Mycroft is startled. He has heard the same words, more or less, earlier in the day. “…manipulative bast—”

“Stop,” Mycroft growls. Sherlock pauses, taking this in, and Mycroft recognizes the expression on his brother’s face that reads: _oh, interesting_. Then Sherlock presses forward with a smirk, “What’s wrong, Mycroft, words hit too close for comfort?”

Mycroft erupts suddenly with unexpected ferocity. “Shut up!” he barks. _Damn_. He winces as he realizes how much he’s revealed. Sherlock is connecting the dots, and within seconds his lips are forming the word “ _Oh_.”

Sherlock, for once surprised into silence, watches as Mycroft runs a hand distractedly through his hair and closes his eyes for a long moment. Mycroft retreats to the other end of the room, and when he turns back, he discovers an uncharacteristically gentle look on his brother’s face. Taking a deep breath, he murmurs, “I’m sorry. I—I’m having a terrible day. It’s nothing to do with you.”

After a lengthy pause, Sherlock asks, “Why didn’t you ever let me meet him?”

Mycroft snorts. “Did you want to?”

“Well, no, not particularly,” Sherlock replies. “But you…”

“What?”

“He was…important to you.” Sherlock examines his brother with wide-eyed curiosity, and Mycroft feels like an insect pinned to a board. A rare specimen, an anomaly. He flicks his hand outward in a gesture that might be either dismissal or concession.

“What was his name?” Sherlock continues.

“He’s not dead, Sherlock,” says Mycroft irritably. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“So from now on, you’re just going to pretend he never existed?” He doesn’t say _fascinating_ but Mycroft can read it in the tilt of his eyebrow.         

“It’s for the best.” Mycroft sinks into a chair and looks up at his brother. “Why are you here, anyway?”

“Oh, John’s on a date. I’m bored,” says Sherlock. Mycroft studies him, remembering the light in his eyes as he and John Watson laughed on that first night Mycroft had seen them together. He debates whether or not he should give voice to the words of warning that spring to mind: _don’t get attached_. He decides against it.

Sherlock has never learned from cautionary tales.

 

*****

“How did he take it?” Mycroft asks as John returns the Adler file.

“I don’t think he believed me,” John replies with a sigh.

“Yes, you’re an ineffectual liar, John,” Mycroft says, almost affectionately.

“So—why didn’t _you_ tell him, then?”

Mycroft deflects the question by noting, “I see he’s kept the phone.”

“Yes, it’s very odd, isn’t it? He’s not sentimental. He doesn’t—keep things.” John turns his gaze into the rainy street beyond the doorway, clearly replaying various memories of Sherlock in his mind.

Mycroft allows himself a small smile, remembering the somber ten-year-old who clutched an old watch in his hand and waved, wordless, as he looked back.

 

*****

The brothers are discussing thirteen plans for Sherlock’s encounter with Moriarty. They argue the most over the worst-case scenario: “Lazarus.”

“Rather cruel, don’t you think, Mycroft?” Sherlock remarks.

_For whom?_ his brother wonders. “Possibly, Sherlock, but absolutely necessary,” Mycroft insists. He is growing impatient; they are wasting time.

“Must be cruel only to be kind, then, Mycroft? Yeah, typical of you.” Sherlock does not catch the fleeting stricken look on his brother’s face.

_All my kindnesses are couched in cruelty,_ Mycroft thinks. John has been a heartening ally, if not exactly a friend. Mycroft hates to imagine how he will suffer. And Sherlock’s pain is already etching itself on his face before his brother’s very eyes. Mycroft forces down the apology that’s on the tip of his tongue. “It may not come to this, anyway, Sherlock. I certainly hope not.”

Mycroft always expects the worst. When he sees the single word his brother has texted him from the roof of Bart’s, he is not surprised.

 

*****

They are in a very dusty room, God knows where, waiting for Sherlock to be picked up and whisked off to exile in parts unknown. Mycroft knows he’s taking a risk, insisting on meeting in person after Sherlock’s apparent suicidal leap, but he can’t bear it otherwise. They have been silently staring at the dust motes dancing in the air for some minutes, avoiding eye contact as they always do when feeling the creeping onset of sentimentality.

Mycroft studies his brother’s posture—impatient and a little petulant, just like a child, he thinks, and the familiar refrain from their childhood echoes in his brain: _I don’t need your help, Mycroft! Oh, yes, you do!_

He laughs suddenly. “I won’t speak to you again until you’re dead,” he says aloud. Sherlock turns to look at him, one eyebrow raised, but says nothing.

“I want something of yours, Sherlock,” Mycroft says when his brother has shifted his gaze. There is a pause, in which he can feel Sherlock’s astonishment. His brother’s eyes have widened.

“What?”

“I don’t know. A button off your shirt? Anything. To keep while you’re away.” Sherlock gives his brother a long, appraising look.

“You’ll get my violin, won’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Much later, he finds the watch wrapped in a handkerchief behind the lining of the violin case. He hasn’t seen it since the day he handed it to Sherlock. He cradles it in his palm until it is no longer cold, then carefully winds the stem. It remains silent, its mechanism stilled; whether through neglect or sabotage, he does not know.

 

*****

In the back of a truck in Serbia, with his brother safe beside him, Mycroft is beginning to allow himself to feel relieved. The past two years have been very, very long.

“You didn’t have to come here for me,” complains Sherlock. Mycroft has been eyeing him with a mixture of tenderness and dismay welling inside, and he tries to keep from showing it.

“I know that,” Mycroft replies, “and so do you.”

“Yes,” says Sherlock. “I do.” He meets his brother’s gaze briefly. There is something of a smile playing about his lips, and for an instant he looks almost shy. Mycroft has to look away to stop himself from reaching for his brother’s hand.

 

*****

Nothing seems real, not even the familiar face of John Watson.

“Mycroft,” he begins in hushed tones, “Have they, um—I mean, how much do you—”

“I—I’ve been briefed, thank you, John,” Mycroft replies. He looks about the small private waiting room uncertainly. “When can I see him?” He supposes he has been told this already, but he can’t remember.

“Not for a while,” says John, looking at him shrewdly. “You should sit down, Mycroft,” he continues, and Mycroft allows himself to be led to a chair without a word.

He has been admirably in control of the panic rising in his chest and threatening to burst his throat, a control achieved by a lifetime of practice. He is aware of the exact moment it falls away, hours later, in that narrow hospital room, and does not have the wherewithal even to be grateful that John has discreetly surrendered his post to allow him to cup a trembling hand against his unconscious brother’s cheek and breathe a tender word into his hair.

 

*****

It’s Christmas, the day he hates. He joins his brother just outside the front door. “This is all your fault, you know. Damned sentimentality.”

“Sorry about that, Mikey.”

“Oh, don’t start that.”

Mycroft plucks the cigarette out of his brother’s hand and brings it to his own lips. Sherlock smirks and retrieves another, lights it, inhales. He jostles Mycroft good-naturedly and bounces a little, and Mycroft is suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of affection combined with a growing nausea, as if his own body has begun to rebel against human emotion. _Sentiment_ , he thinks. _What is wrong with me now? I’m afraid I’m going to say something stupid any minute._

 

*****

They are waiting.

They will be parted soon, and for all they know, forever. Their voices are quiet, their words calm and commonplace, and neither brother meets the other’s eye.

“They’ll arrive in five minutes. The car will meet us on the tarmac,” says Mycroft. “I’m afraid you won’t have much time.”

“Yes,” replies Sherlock, absently.

_Oh God, how has it come to this?_ Mycroft thinks bitterly. He has been torturing himself by going over every scenario, stretching back years, to try to find the answer to the impossible question: _How could I have prevented it?_

Mycroft looks at his pocket watch without seeing it, suppressing an entirely insane urge to throw it against the door. _Six months_. “I haven’t finished saying all the things I want to say to you.”

Sherlock laughs abruptly. “Mycroft, you’ll never finish saying all the things you want to say to me.”

In the glittering sunlight his brother strides onto the plane without a backward look, an act for which Mycroft is grateful. His face set, he is already planning the series of events which will bring Sherlock home. It will be long, complicated, arduous, but no obstacle dismays him, for he will do anything—anything—to keep safe the bright-eyed child who, in his dreams, springs to his waiting arms and calls him brother.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. This is my first attempt at fanfic. Feedback is very much welcomed.
> 
> You can find me at: [amisplacedlonelyheartsad.tumblr.com](http://amisplacedlonelyheartsad.tumblr.com)


End file.
